


A Study In Flirting

by believeinmycroft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Reichenbach, Sexual Fantasy, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/believeinmycroft/pseuds/believeinmycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is bored, and Moriarty provides the perfect distraction – through a string of extremely naughty texts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study In Flirting

**Author's Note:**

> A simple little PWP I whipped up in about an hour. My first, so I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> (Set shortly after the events of finale of Season 1, The Great Game. Originally published September 2013.)

Sherlock was bored.

He was sitting at his desk, typing quickly on his blog - two hundred and forty-six types of tobacco ash now, see what John thought of that - but he worked absent-mindedly, feeling not quite so intrigued by the dissection of new information as he normally would be. And although Sherlock wasn’t technically “good” at social interactions and dealing with emotions (he’d learned enough about society’s rules to figure _that_ out for himself, thank you very much), he knew the physical and mental signs of boredom when they occurred.

And god, was he _bored._

Sherlock’s phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket and if he was prone to outbursts of emotion he probably would’ve cried in relief at the distraction. As it was, he sighed as he whipped out the slender device and tapped the power button, vaguely curious as to who could be texting him at this hour.

(Time: 3:41am, John asleep upstairs – heard him snoring just now. Lestrade never texted this late under any circumstances, and Mycroft rarely texted at all, and besides, the man valued his rare beauty sleep very highly. Not that it ever gave him any form of beauty whatsoever.)

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he saw the message.

_Hello darling. M_

Sherlock snarled as he recognized the number and stood up, pacing the apartment.

He should have known Moriarty would contact him again at some point - it had already been two weeks since their first meeting at the pool and although he would never admit it to anyone, he’d been waiting – impatiently – for Moriarty to contact him again.

It wasn’t that he was particularly eager to actually meet the man anytime soon, as he’d learnt from their encounter that Moriarty was not just highly intelligent, but also enormously dangerous and capable of killing mercilessly. And the last thing Sherlock wanted was for John to be injured in any way trying to help or save Sherlock from the madman – as he’d come far too close to doing at the pool.

But therein lay Sherlock’s fascination with Moriarty – someone so clever, so dangerously intelligent, so capable of total mayhem, was both terrifying and utterly intriguing.

Most importantly, Moriarty was a _challenge._ A brilliant, charming, completely psychopathic one at that, but a challenge nonetheless, someone who was actually able to stand up to Sherlock’s own intelligence and put up a decent fight.

It was the first time in a long time that Sherlock had met someone who could do that.

He looked down at the slim phone resting in the palm of his hand, staring at the small words written across the screen. What the hell was Moriarty playing at? What should he text back?

He suddenly felt a small tension in his chest, something almost like nervousness fluttering quietly as he tried to think of what to write. His fingers ghosted hesitantly over the screen.

 _Greetings._ No, far too formal.

 _Why, hello to you too._ Definitely not, that was borderline flirting. Sherlock might’ve been a little bit thick at times when it came to social interactions, but he knew enough to know how suggestive those words were.

His worries became unfounded when the phone buzzed in his hand again.

_Why aren’t you talking to me, darling? I won’t bite._

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and wondered if the innuendo was intentional. The phone buzzed again.

_Unless of course you want me to._

Definitely intentional, then. Sherlock felt an unfamiliar flush crawl up his cheeks and into his hairline, prickling his skin with warmth. He was usually impervious to this sort of obvious teasing, but for some reason, he couldn’t help himself or control the heat that was undoubtedly colouring his cheeks.

 _Great_ , he thought, running his fingers through his hair. _Next thing you know you’ll be giggling like a bloody teenage schoolgirl._ His fingers hesitated over the screen of the phone, and then he typed quickly, pressing send before he could change his mind.

_What are you playing at, Moriarty? – SH_

The phone vibrated again after barely ten seconds had passed. Moriarty was surprisingly quick; so quick, in fact, that Sherlock wondered if Moriarty was as eager to talk as he was.

_Oh, just a little game Sherly. A fun way to pass the time._

Sherlock glared at the nickname ‘Sherly’, but chose to let it go for the meantime, replying quickly.

_And what kind of game would that be?_

_I think you know what kind._

Sherlock hesitated, genuinely confused. What on earth was Moriarty insinuating? 

 _I’m sure I don’t know what you mean._  

_Really, Sherlock. Have you never flirted with someone over the phone before?_

Sherlock could feel his cheeks burning now and he had no clue how to respond. Was this really what he and Moriarty were doing? _Flirting?_

Most troublingly, Sherlock seemed to be enjoying it a great deal, or at least, his body was. He ran through the mental symptoms of physical arousal: uncontrollable blushing (check), heightened sweating (check), heightened blood pressure and heart rate (he felt his pulse, and check), and of course, the most common sign of arousal in men...

Sherlock reached down and grasped the front of his trousers, shocked to find the fabric was tense, his cock straining underneath. Oh god, he hadn’t had one of those in a long time.

He’d actually forgotten how incredible it felt, like every one of his nerve endings was on fire, small ripples of pleasure flowing through his body every time he ran his thumb over the head of the cock through his trousers.

On an impulse he slipped his hand under the waistband of his pants, thumbing his cock through his underwear. The closer contact was enough to make him gasp and his toes curled involuntarily as he tried not to let out a moan. He removed his hand and sucked on his fingers briefly – it would have to do for now, he was too desperate – then dug it underneath his underwear, wrapping wet fingers around his hard length.

Sherlock moaned in earnest this time, unable to contain himself. He stroked up and down the shaft leisurely, relishing the sensation of heat wrapped around his length, the pull of the skin as his hand moved upwards, the sharp little shivers that ran down his spine whenever his fingers brushed over the sensitive head and smeared pre-cum down the rest of his cock.

He groaned, the noise rumbling deep in his chest. What he wouldn’t give to have someone, anyone at all, get down on their knees and wrap their wet, soft lips around the head of his--

The forgotten phone vibrated in his other hand and Sherlock jumped, almost dropping it, suddenly remembering how this had begun. He decreased the speed of his stroking, unwilling to stop entirely, and checked the message.

_My mistake, Sherly. I should’ve known you don’t flirt. I don’t call you The Virgin for nothing, you know._

Sherlock rolled his eyes, still massaging his cock slowly with his other hand, and managed to type out a quick response.

_What makes you think I’m a virgin?_

_Oh, just a few small things…_

_Like?_  

_My, my, Sherly. Are you really so curious?_

Sherlock gritted his teeth, well aware that Moriarty was flirting again but not caring in the slightest. He typed back quickly, feeling arousal coiling in his gut.

 _Just answer my question._  

It was a minute before Moriarty wrote back, and when he did Sherlock almost fell out of his chair.

_You’re not that interested in sex, and I seriously doubt you’ve ever screwed a woman. But we both know all you really want is for a man to fuck that tight little ass of yours. And honey, I’d be so glad to help._

Sherlock’s cock grew even harder under his fingers and he gasped. He was getting close, so fucking close, and he jerked hard on his cock, trying not to moan too loudly but barely able to help himself. With trembling fingers he managed to text Moriarty back.

_Tell me more._

He waited for more than a minute, stroking while impatience grew steadily in his gut. When Moriarty didn’t reply he texted again reluctantly.

_Please._

He only had to wait twenty seconds for Moriarty to text back this time.

 _Why? Are you getting off on this, Sherlock?_  

Sherlock couldn’t tell if he was serious or not, and opted to take it sincerely.

_Yes. Now keep talking._

He could almost picture Moriarty getting the text and his eyes widening in surprise. Perhaps a smug smile would spread slowly across the man’s face, and he’d lick his lips, and then perhaps he’d slip one hand beneath the waistband of his pants and wrap those slender fingers around his own cock--

Sherlock froze, hand still tangled in his underwear and breath coming in sharp pants.

Was he actually - he could barely bring himself to think it - _fantasizing_ about Moriarty?

 _Dear god,_ he thought. He put down his phone - Moriarty hadn’t texted back yet, Sherlock figured it would take him a moment after that message - and scratched the back of his head as he thought, dick forgotten in his hand for the time being.

He certainly hadn’t planned on this conversation escalating to this kind of level. The absurdity of the situation hit him suddenly and he chuckled darkly. No, he certainly had not predicted that this conversation would end up with his hand halfway down his pants, jerking off to some flirty texts sent by his archenemy. The sheer ludicrousness of it all made a slight smile tug at the edge of his lips.   _Oh well_ , he thought. _What’s the harm in a little bit of flirting?_

As if Moriarty could sense he’d made up his mind, Sherlock’s phone vibrated on the table. He reached for it, stroking his cock again with the same steady pace as before. He paused before picking it up.

He was almost nervous as to what Moriarty’s reply would be. Would it be a rejection? For some reason he didn’t think he could handle a rejection now, not when he was this close to coming, and he hoped it was good. Sherlock picked up the phone and scanned the screen quickly, swiping to see the full message.

Oh, it was more than good; it was fucking _amazing._

_You want more, Sherlock? Okay then. I want to suck your cock dry until you’re shouting my name. And then I want to fuck your tight, hot little ass until you scream. I’ll fuck you until you scream my name, and then I’ll fuck you some more. And just when you think you’ve been pounded into oblivion and you can’t take anymore, you can fuck me instead. Would you like that, Sherlock? Would you like feeling my cock slide deep inside you? Or would you prefer to feel your own cock deep inside my tight, wet ass?_

Sherlock moaned out loud, his hand pumping furiously now. He closed his eyes and let the fantasy of Moriarty guide him to his orgasm.

He imagined Moriarty leaning over him on a bed, hard cock in one hand, guiding it inside Sherlock’s ass, pressing forward with his hips and sinking deep inside Sherlock, both of them groaning in pleasure as Sherlock’s insides tightened around the other man. Moriarty pushed in deep and Sherlock moaned as his ass struggled to adjust to the length. Moriarty pulled his hips back slightly and then snapped them forward, thrusting hard into Sherlock.

Sherlock slid his fingers down past his other hand stroking his cock and pressed a finger inside of himself, imagining Moriarty’s cock in its place, reaching deep inside of him, aiming for that sweet spot and brushing it just enough that the pleasure thrilled through his body and made his toes curl.

In his fantasy, he clenched the bed sheets in one hand and glared at Moriarty.

"Fuck me," he said quietly, and  Moriarty slowed down, just enough to taunt him.

"Sorry, Sherlock," said Moriarty, leaning forward, thrusting slowly. "Didn’t quite catch that."

"I want you," Sherlock said, looking into those dark eyes, "to fuck me." 

"Well, if you insist," Moriarty shrugged with a crooked smirk, and Sherlock braced himself, and then Moriarty began pounding into him in earnest, grunting loudly. His hips snapped back and forth, thrusting deep inside Sherlock, and all he could do was hold on for dear life as Moriarty fucked him within an inch of his life.

Moriarty’s heavy, hot breath ghosted across his cheek, his thighs making a wet slapping sound against Sherlock’s bare ass, and Moriarty reached between their sweaty stomachs and grasped Sherlock’s dick, pumping it quickly in time with his thrusts. 

"--just--please--more--" Sherlock panted, his back arching off the bed, the fantasy blending into reality, a hand around his cock that was simultaneously his own and Moriarty’s, pressure inside his ass that was both his fingers and Moriarty’s cock pressing deep inside.

His head pressed hard into the pillow and his hands scrabbled for purchase, anything, to hold onto, and he grasped Moriarty’s bare ass, pulling him in and holding him deep inside his body, and then he was finally coming, the orgasm rising and crashing through his body. He yelled out Moriarty’s name as he came, hot and sticky, across their chests, and went loose in Moriarty’s arms, the fire from the orgasm still coursing through his veins. He breathed deep and slow, completely blissed out of his mind.

Sherlock opened his eyes, the fantasy over, to realize his hand was still inside his underwear, only now covered with his own come, and his phone had fallen to the ground at his feet. He let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, running a sweaty hand through his hair.

 _Fuck, that was good,_ he thought. _I guess I really needed that._

It was only then that Sherlock heard the sound of slow footsteps coming down the stairs, and he leapt out of the desk chair in panic, his hand still halfway down his pants and his phone lying on the floor. _Oh, shit._  
  


*  
  


The first thing John saw when he came down the stairs was Sherlock sitting nonchalantly on the couch, his feet up on the table, with a newspaper spread over his lap.

John paused, running a hand through his mussed hair, and yawned.  "What are you doing, Sherlock?" he said sleepily.

"N-nothing, John," said Sherlock. If John didn’t know better he’d say Sherlock almost seemed skittish.

"Oh, I thought I heard you call out a name," John said, stifling a yawn. "It almost sounded like you shouted out “Moriarty” or something ..."

He trailed off when he saw how Sherlock’s face had suddenly paled.

"I’m sure it’s nothing, John," said Sherlock hurriedly. "You were probably just imagining things." He coughed.  "Auditory hallucinations from a lack of sleep are relatively common."

John’s suspicious gaze fell upon the newspaper carefully spread over Sherlock’s lap, and then went to his embarrassed and very pale face. John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, whatever," he said, turning to walk up the stairs. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, John," said Sherlock, voice quiet.

"Tissues are in the kitchen," John sang out in the passageway.

He was almost to his room when he heard Sherlock finally walk quietly to the kitchen, and he hid a broad grin as he closed the door to his room.  
  


*  
  


Sherlock fell into bed, pulling the sheets tight around his body, burying his face into the soft, downy pillows. He sighed with content, feeling more relaxed than he had in a long time.

His eyes flew open as he remembered his phone. He clambered out of his bed slowly and padded out to the living room in the dark, snatching his phone off the ground where he’d dropped it, then went back to his bed and climbed under the covers. He pressed the power button. Moriarty had sent one more message, about twenty minutes ago.

 _Was that good for you, darling? It was SO good for me._  

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the incessant flirting and hesitated before messaging back. He finally opted for honesty. 

 _Yes. And thank you. Truly._  

It was a short moment before Moriarty messaged back. 

 _Well, I’m all miffed now._ _Goodnight Sherly. Sweet dreams_.

 Sherlock tried not to smile. Those words filled him with a kind of soft feeling he didn't quite recognize.

_Goodnight Jim. Sweet dreams._

Sherlock turned his phone off and put it on the bedside table, turning onto his side, burrowing into the soft, warm covers and pulling the quilt up around his neck.

As he closed his eyes and starting drifting off, he almost started to imagine warm arms wrapped around his frame, and another’s head on the pillow beside him, quiet breath against the back of his neck.

By then, he was already asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> (A/N March 2016: Basically I decided to update this thing after three or so years of it being up online, because a) the formatting was hilariously awful, and b) it was generally just not great overall. 
> 
> Part of me wanted to leave it up as a testament to what a terrible writer I started off as, but in the end my need to fix something that so clearly needed fixing won out. I hope you enjoyed it anyway, and thank you to all the people who gave it kudos back when it was just another poorly-written PWP created by an angsty sixteen-year-old. Y'all are the best fans I could ask for.)


End file.
